


hormone hell

by MaryPSue



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: F/F, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: Constance “Stan” Filomena Pines is seventeen years old, in love with her best friend, and failing grade twelve math. And biology. And chemistry....Erika Sofia Ramirez Sanchez is seventeen years old, a high-school dropout, and living at the YWCA, and it’s none of anybody’s damn business why....An all-lady AU because this is where I live.





	hormone hell

**Author's Note:**

> Have a few headcanons for a lady!Stanchez AU disguised as a fic. Content warning for homophobic slurs. Many thanks to the illustrious [ancientouroboros](https://ancientouroboros.tumblr.com) for the title!

Constance “Stan” Filomena Pines is seventeen years old, in love with her best friend, and failing grade twelve math. And biology. And chemistry.

Honestly, she can’t really be blamed. Her sister Ford (”there’s six Bonnies in our grade, I  _can’t -”_ “well, you can’t go by _Buford_ either!”) got all the family brains, and apparently their older sister Shermaine got both the talent and the common sense, since she blew Glass Shard Beach off years ago. Last Stan heard, she was living in New York and she was gonna break into Broadway any day now. So that just leaves Stan with the brawn, and, as she likes to tease Ford, the looks. (”We’re  _identical_ , Constance.”) 

And, obviously, she can’t know anything about biology or chemistry, because if she did, she wouldn’t be head over heels for another girl.

Again, Stan really can’t be blamed. It would be impossible to get to know Carla McCorkle at all and not fall a little bit in love with her. Which is probably why Carla has had a string of useless boyfriends and Stan hasn’t had one. It probably has nothing to do with the fact that Stan is fascinated with Carla’s dimples and the way she moves like part of the music when she dances and the smell of fresh-cut flowers that seems to follow her everywhere and her amazing legs. Definitely not. 

It might have something to do with the fact that Stan is technically a  _boy’s name_ , but there are no fewer than twelve Connies in their grade, which is double the number of Bonnies, which means she has twice the right Ford has to pick another nickname. Besides, nobody who laid eyes on her would ever mistake her for a boy. Stan makes damn sure of that. Maybe she’s not pretty, but nobody’s gonna look straight through a girl whose frankly fantastic tits are right out on display. Nobody’s gonna tell a girl who wears false eyelashes to gym class that she ‘just isn’t trying’. 

Stan  _could_  have a boyfriend. Probably. If she wanted one. She just doesn’t want one right now. 

(Because she’s in love with her best friend, and everything about that makes her want to burst into tears, because doesn’t it just  _fucking_  figure.)

...

Erika Sofia Ramirez Sanchez is seventeen years old, a high-school dropout, and living at the YWCA, and it’s none of anybody’s damn business why.

Just like the enormous spikes in electricity usage at the Y since she got there are none of anybody's business. Or where she gets the money for her room. Or what happened to the rest of her family. People are so fucking nosy in small towns. Glass Shard Beach is a hole, and she’s not planning on staying long. Just long enough to get another patent proposal together, sell that shit, scrape up a damage deposit. Get out of the fucking Y. 

Living at the YWCA does have its perks, though. For one thing, nobody cares about when she comes and goes, or where she's going, or who she's with. Nobody cares what she's doing, so long as the noise and flashing lights don't wake the neighbours at odd hours. And she doesn't brown out the whole floor again. 

For another thing, there's a gym. Erika's never cared much about bodybuilding or whatever, but there's a punching bag. She doesn't know anything about boxing and doesn't care enough to learn, but there's something she really likes about having something around to kick the crap out of that can't hit back.

Which is why, when she stumbles into the gym at about four in the afternoon and there's already somebody using the punching bag, her first impulse is to storm over and make that fucker give it  _back_.

...

Stan doesn’t notice the other girl until she has to stop to catch her breath. That’s when she realizes she’s being watched. She steps back from the punching bag, breathing hard, too hard to say anything when she locks eyes with the tall girl who’s staring at her like Stan’s a riddle she’s trying to figure out.

She’s not pretty. But there’s something about her that catches Stan’s eye and keeps it there. She’s tall, and rawboned, long-faced and scowling. Her clothes are clean and in good repair, but worn at the hems and anywhere her stickman limbs bend, stretched shapeless by too many washes. Obviously secondhand. Stan should know, all of her clothes are the same.

At least Stan has style, though. This girl looks like she’s actually trying to avoid being noticed. If she has any curves, the straight, square cut of her plain grey t-shirt and bluejeans are hiding them, her mousy hair is scraped back in a utilitarian, messy ponytail, and she’s not wearing any makeup. She hasn’t even groomed the bush of ash-blond eyebrow crossing over her long, narrow nose.

She looks like she’s never spent a second on her appearance in her life. Not like the girls Stan knows who work really hard to look like they don’t care what they look like. She looks like she actually doesn’t give a damn what other people see when they look at her, and there’s something about it that’s…

Well. That’s hot as hell.

She's still standing there staring, though, like some kind of creep. Stan rubs the back of one wrapped hand across her forehead, catching a few rivulets of sweat before they run into her eyes. "Hey, take a picture, it'll last longer."

Unibrow girl doesn't look away. There's something almost challenging in her stare. Stan doesn't want to be the first to blink.

"What, what's with the staring? You some kinda dyke?" Stan blurts, feeling shaken, feeling brave. The word comes out like a slap, stings the inside of her mouth. She says it again, just because she finally has an excuse to. "You look like a dyke."

This finally pulls a reaction out of unibrow girl, though not the one Stan was expecting. The side of her narrow mouth quirks up into a smile, and she says, "T-takes one to know one."

Stan knows better than to mistake the stutter for fear.

Almost without her input, her hands ball back into fists. Stan throws a left hook at the punching bag, feigning nonchalance.

"You're still staring," she says, after a few more punches.

Unibrow girl puts her head to one side. "You d-didn't tell me to stop."

Stan doesn't actually have a good response to that, so she goes back to doing what she does best: punching.

By the time she's run through her repertoire two times more, the burn in her arms and shoulders has started to turn into leaden exhaustion, and unibrow girl's starting to look bored. Stan steps back from the punching bag, sweeping the stray hairs that had escaped her messy topknot back out of her face. 

"All yours," she says to unibrow girl, as she steps off the mat. She can see the curious look unibrow girl gives her, but forces herself to keep walking, pretend she's not there.

Still, Stan can feel the other girl's eyes on her back all the way into the locker room.


End file.
